


Oblivion

by potterandpromises



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, But Mostly Hurt, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, Intrusive Thoughts, Medical Procedures, Mild Language, alcohol is mentioned, post 2x05, probably whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 00:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterandpromises/pseuds/potterandpromises
Summary: The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.





	Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between 2x05 and 2x06. Slight canon divergent in that Lucy started sleeping on the couch a day after 2x05 instead of at the beginning of 2x06. 
> 
> All content warnings are in the tags. Please reed them and think carefully about whether or not you're okay with reading those topics.

The kitchen clock reads 2:26 am; Lucy's pretty sure she's lost her nightly battle.

Judging from the sounds that had stopped only a matter of minutes ago; Wyatt and Jessica are very happy together. And she should be happy for the her friend, and she is, really (really!). But it doesn't seem too unreasonable to dislike having to listen to their very loud 'happiness' into the early morning. Not when time for sleep, let alone a mind for sleep, is already an unstable commodity.

But bringing that up to the couple isn't an option. And she has the silence she wanted right now, and she should be taking advantage of it. Except her ancestors created an actual evil cult in order to secretly control America. And her mother groomed her for said cult's purposes. And—

Screw it.

Lucy rolls off the couch and walks to the kitchen. She'd seen Mason undeniably drunk just yesterday. Even if he keeps his stash in his room he must get it from somewhere. So she searches every semi-plausible hiding place the metal pantry has to offer. Even pulling up a chair for a better vantage point.

Nothing.

Maybe she should just watt it out until Mason leaves his room for more than a few minutes at a time. Then she can—

Somehow, she manages to fall on her dissent from the chair in such a way as to hit her recently-stabbed arm on the counter, than catch the entirety of her weight upon landing. Typical, really, can't even stand on a damn chair right.

"Lucy?"

She's too preoccupied writhing in pain to turn to look at him; but notes the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, go back to bed." she marriages to say, despite searing pain.

Not ready to get up, Lucy clutches her arm, squirms fully onto her back and squeezes her eyes shut. If she ripped open her stitches she'll have to tell Agent Christopher and— 

Flynn's hand covers her own, tugging slightly at her fingers in a gentle attempt to move them off the offending injury. Peeling her eyes open, she gives him a questioning look.

"I need to see if you ripped out any stitches." He says matter-of-factly. 

She considers telling him that she can handle this herself. That he should go back to bed and pretend this never happened. But she's tired and re-bandaging her upper arm is a struggle. (And it does not hurt that his abnormally gentle demeanor makes for a compelling distraction.)

Lucy nods and sits up, nearly flopping backward. Flynn steadies her with a hand between her shoulder blades. "Wash your hands first."

"I'm just looking."

"But you are touching," she points out. He removes his hand Immediately, as if just realizing his mistake. “And I can't risk another infection." she's barely heeled from the last one. She can't deal with another, ever.

He gives a tight-lipped smile, "Fair enough." How much of that ordeal had he been around for? She doesn't remember him being there, but she doesn't remember much of anything.

He washes his hands. She attempts to stand, only to hiss in pain when she puts too much weight on her injured arm. Yup, definitely ripped out some stitches.

Flynn's arm is around her in an instant, lifting her to her feet, done and over with before she can even process it. He then delicately pulls her cardigan off her shoulder, just enough to reveal the freshly bleeding wound. His gaze flickers briefly to her other, newer bandage, courtesy of Emma; which mercifully doesn't show any blood— unlike it’s predecessor. He removes the covering from her stab wound and carefully probes the area with a wet cloth.

He's always like that, she realizes, purposeful in his touch. Ever since he came to the bunker; when he had to touch her it was always careful, practical, never lasting longer than necessary. 

Why?

(She has the absurd thought that she would not mind his touch in very different circumstances, if it wasn't for the possibility of having to live and work with multiple one-night stands.)

Slouching, he visibly takes a moment to choose his next words. "You might be able to get away with butterfly stitches, but I think it would be best if you got replacements." Lucy cringes inwardly at the idea of attempting to explain the predicament she got herself in to Agent Christopher. What happened was silly; would she judge Lucy for it? And her injury couldn't be that bad, did she really—

Flynn licks his lips in that unconscious, thoughtful way. "If you would prefer, I could fix it."

"You know how to do that?" He probably learned during one of the wars he fought in, or his time on the run. But she feels the need to clarify, telling herself she isn't yet at that level of uncaring.

"Learned on the job." He confirms. “You'll let me stitch you up then?" He searches her face for an answer, expression artificially neutral.

"Better you then—" anyone else. She doesn't wish to examine what that means. "Yes."

"Are there medical supplies someplace around here?" She catches a note of criticism. She'd heard from Rufus how he'd insisted they add a first aid kit to the lifeboat after Salem, when she had to use a dirty rag to keep from dripping.

"Maybe in there?" She gestures in the direction of the spare room where they'd kept teenage JFK a few days prior. Flynn nods and leads her toward the space. She stops just outside the doorway. 

He rummages around industrial shelving units. "is there a reason you ware— ah," he pulls out the not-so-recently-acquired med kit and gestures to the cot. Lucy doesn't move.

"Having second thoughts?" 

"No, just... not in here." It isn't even that small of a space, but her claustrophobia doesn't care; not tonight.

He seems to consider her, before nodding and starting toward the couch.

Lucy sits awkwardly, awaiting farther instruction. Flynn puts the kit on the table and empties some of it's meager contents. Soon making a disgusted, disapproving noise that turns into a sigh. "Looks like I can't numb you." he turns to her, gauging her reaction.

Lucy feels nauseated, momentarily. But she's sure she'd felt worse upon the initial stabbing, and her desire to not have to explain this injury to anyone else is a powerful one. She tries to shrug, but fails on account of needing to hold the cloth over her damaged skin. Instead she mutters "it's fine."

He grabs a pill bottle, shaking a few into his hand. "Swallow these, we'll do it in 15 minutes." She takes the pain killers without comment, and watches him lay out his tools in a neat row on the table. So unlike him, she thinks. 

"The supplies in this place are abysmal. How is it that Wyatt and Rufus have both been shot and nobody thought 'hey maybe we should keep a first aid kit in that thing?'" He gestures with vague frustration in the direction of the lifeboat. She can’t be sure if the hints of worry amongst the annoyance in his tone are reel or imagined.

"I think Christopher said something about putting one in the lifeboat."

"About time," he mutters.

Watching him prepare a curved needle with alcohol, she thinks of having an actual conversation with him. Like they're normal human beings, who aren't caught up in a real-world conspiracy, living in a secret government bunker; just two people enjoying each other’s company. But it feels out of reach, like another timeline entirely. (Right next to the one with her sister, across from the one where she and Wyatt had a relationship lasting longer than one night.) And nothing good comes from dwelling on those.

"I think it's been long enough, are you in less pain that you started in?"

it takes her a moment to perceive the question. "Um, yeah, I guess so." A lie, given that over-the-counter hardly works on her anymore (saying so wouldn’t make this any easier).

"Lay on your side, it will help with the bleeding." 

And so Lucy gracelessly half falls onto her side, painfully jostling her arm in the process. She takes a moment to psych herself up, and withdraws the damp rag. She trusts him not to hurt her anymore than necessary, but she feels the loss of control anyway.

He begins by wiping away the blood that had begun to pool under the cloth. Then douses the area with hydrogen peroxide; which stings, but is perfectly expected. And she manages to barely react, only wiggling her foot as a distraction—

She stifles a yelp into a sharp intake of breath. He pierces her skin, than quickly pulls her it beck together. The first time this was done to her she’d been numb to the intimacies of digging into and altering flash, first by adrenaline than by lidocaine; now all the details are revealed. Her breathing becomes rigid; it screams for a more severe physical response. 

Flynn hesitates only a moment. "It will be over soon.” he reassures. And she wants to tall him to stop, to let it be over now. But the logical part of her brain wins out and she stays excruciatingly still for five more stitches. Reminding herself that this is instead of bothering Agent Christopher and having to deal with a doctor; because, for reasons she doesn't care to examine, he is the best person to do this.

"I'm done with that part, Lucy." He says softly, spreading ointment over his handily work. Than wrapping it.

Her pain, now a dull throb, is replaced by an enveloping calm, one she recognizes from her junior year of high school. It had scared her so much she'd never done it again. But she'd seen more, done more, a few small cuts meant nothing. And It did help, if she just—

It's not a coping mechanism she can afford to adopt. Being semi-undressed in front of her team is inescapable, even if she cut somewhere no one would theoretically have to see— ending up stranded without access to clean water or fresh bandages is always a possibility, and another infection isn't an option.

Flynn is still standing by her couch, his expression unreadable. He cleans up and returns the medical supplies. Than walks away only to come back a minute later, handing her a glass of water and her cardigan.

Lucy accepts the glass. "Hey thinks for—" she gestures to her newly re-stitched arm. 

He nods and stays another few moments, watching her drink, than her put her cardigan on. He has no reason to do so— unless he just wants to; or he’s delaying the return to the most intense of his own internal battles. That seems more likely. 

"Goodnight, Lucy." He says, voice nearly too soft to hear, it feels all too meaningful. She says it back, even knowing it isn't like that for him either.

People will be up in a few hours, and she will have gotten just as much sleep. But her thoughts aren't as relentless as before, and she's finally tired in a way that will let her rest. 

-

When the alarms sounded for her first mission post-stabbing, Lucy wasn't anticipating her first challenge to be getting out of the lifeboat. She'd done this dozens of times and it wasn't like it was particularly difficult, but the last time she tried to step off of any remotely high surface—

"Care for a lift?" Flynn looks up at her, apparently having seen her dilemma and wanting to help. He always wants to help lately, it's sweet.

Nodding, she gives him a half smile and he lifts her safely and easily — which does not go unnoticed by her — onto the ground.

(And If his hands linger on her side a moment longer than necessary, she does not mind the contact.)


End file.
